Son of Gondor
by Whilom
Summary: Boromir's life has centered around one title he always strove to keep with honor. But now, at his death, he's fighting merely to keep it.


**Disclaimer:** Not mine, yadda yadda.

**A/N:** Yes, I know, it may be getting old but I write tons of death fics. Hehe, yeeeeah. So I write death fics! Shoot me! (Just kidding). But I only write the particularly moving ones. Here's when Boromir dies, movie verse so none of the words in little "" are mine. Oh, except for the italicized ones...cuz that's Denethor talking.

As always, REVIEW por favor. I love reviews. They're like...like...well, reviews. ;)

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Boromir lifted the gilded horn to his lips and blew. The sound was proud, yet desperate. He had hoped to never have to use it. Now it seemed it was perhaps too late. Orcs surrounded them, the filthy creatures, coming forward one by one or a few at a time to deal with the warrior. He knew that they could have brought him down if they fought together, but they hung back. More gathered and he was hard-pressed to keep the hobbits moving from danger. He sounded the horn again, looking past the dark faces to see perhaps a glimpse of the Ranger or the dwarf. Even the elf would be helpful at a time like this. 

"_Why do you look for help when you are able as it is?"_ he remembered his father's words to him as a young boy. The proud, commanding tone they were spoken in as well as the weight of his father's hand on his shoulder came back to Boromir in a moment. _"You are a son of Gondor, a son of the White City! Never fail her and you shall always be her son, and mine."_ He had meant to encourage Boromir to be the best soldier he could be, to rise above the ranks, and supercede all command. Now Boromir was grateful for his father's words and training because it helped him on this quest, with a Fellowship that seemed to be quickly falling into fragments.

He flipped an orc over his back and stabbed it while it was down. Merry and Pippin threw stones at their attackers but he kept them moving back. Perhaps it was because they seemed easy prey, perhaps it was more than that, but the orcs were focusing their attacks to merely get by Boromir to the hobbits. The Gondorian had to release the horn and lift his sword to hurriedly block a blow. Pippin and Merry had jumped onto an uruk and stabbed it. Another orc came forward and he swatted aside its shield with his sword, making quick work of it.

"Run, run!" he shouted, pushing the hobbits back. He kept the uruks at the point of his sword, not letting them come closer. He was tiring and to use his full blade against theirs would tax him further. He relied on the razor-sharp point to draw their black blood. He was wounding them, but they were too many to kill now.

Lurtz mounted the hill and looked down over the orcs he commanded. They were many, outnumbering the warrior and the Halflings he protected. They were obeying his order, Saruman's order, to take the little ones and leave the Men to him. Why fight with honor when deception brought more gain? The uruks around him continued to stream down the hill but Lurtz remained at the crest, bringing his bow to his hands and reaching for a thick arrow from the quiver at his hip. He nocked it and freed it with a slow growl. It struck the warrior just above his heart.

Boromir felt a dull thud and then a burning pain that seemed to sear deep in his chest. He had been struck. But by what? His eyes met those of a great uruk with a dark bow in his hands. He could have screamed with the pain but only a low moan came from his mouth. _"What weakness is this?" _he could hear his father cry. _"Have I raised a weakling or coddled you that you should thus fall short now? Up, up on your feet!" _He felt his knees weaken and then rebelled against his body. Rising with a yell, he turned on the nearest orc and pushed his sword through its armor, fighting with more abandon than previously. It didn't matter that his body was screaming, that he couldn't breathe through the haze. He would take as many with him as time allowed.

Lurtz descended the hill, snarling. The warrior was foolish, bringing his life so quickly to an end with his fighting. Three more orcs fell to the warrior's blade before the uruk had nocked another arrow and drawn the string back. The force of the short-range shot would undoubtedly kill the Man and they could take the Halflings.

He let the arrow fly, seeing with satisfaction that it had struck the Man just below the ribcage. Boromir crumpled to the ground, his breath leaving him in a rush. He fought to pull air in and saw spots dance before his eyes. Why was breathing so difficult? Oh yes, he was wounded. Why could he not think? He needed only to fight. _"Do not let him get the best of you, son. Fight him! Fight…"_

The roar of the uruk echoed in his head. It was angry that he was not dead, angry that he still lived. Lived? What was life without air? He rose from his knees again, swaying to catch his balance, before wildly striking out with his sword. Tears and sweat muddied in his eyes but he didn't need to see in order to fight. The force of a third arrow, embedding itself in his flesh, pushed him to his knees once more. This time, there was no rising. His horn was cloven in two yet still hanging from its string around his neck. It was just like him. It had done its duty, but was through. Broken, useless, but still a horn. He was still a son of Gondor. He would die a son of Gondor. _"Never fail her and you shall always be her son, and mine. A son of Gondor…"_

With the warrior down, the uruks rushed in to take the Halflings, lifting them in their arms and slinging them to their backs. They set off at a slow run, trampling down green things in their way. They had done as commanded and were on their way to Saruman.

The uruks parted around Boromir as a rock in a stream. He trembled with shock and the pain that was numbing him. He could feel his heart beat but the sound brought no promise of life, only death. Dark blood ran down his chest and he knew it was not from the orcs he had killed. _Breathe._ He dragged in air and let it out, willing his chest to move despite the thick barbs that wounded it. His eyes were fixed on the ground because at least it was something he could touch through the haze. Two feet paused before him and he looked up slowly to meet his attacker with a look of pure hatred. _Show no fear, son of Gondor. Be brave._ He set his jaw and watched as the uruk pulled back an arrow and aimed it at his heart, growling with pleasure.

The shot never came.

Boromir could hear Aragorn fighting with the uruk but he could not help him. He was on his back, struggling to hold on until the Ranger came. It seemed moments later when Aragorn hovered above him.

"They took the little ones," Boromir said, the blood in his mouth making his voice thick. To his ears, his voice sounding unnaturally loud, then soft.

"Stay still," Aragorn murmured, looking over his wounds. The Ranger's eyes told what his mouth did not. There was nothing that could be done.

"Frodo. Where's Frodo?" Boromir persisted, reaching up to grip Aragorn's shoulder with what strength he had left.

"I let Frodo go."

"Then you did what I could not. I tried to take the Ring from him." The admission nearly broke him. He wanted to weep, to bow his head at the Ranger's feet and do what he should have done, what he had wanted to do for weeks: offer his friendship and sword in service to this man. Condemnation would break him, coming from Aragorn.

"The Ring is beyond our reach now," the man said softly.

_You do not blame me?_

"Forgive me. I did not see it. I have failed you all." The words formed broken sentences but it was all he could manage. He kept his hand at Aragorn's shoulder, struggling to keep a grasp on life. His surroundings were unknown to him and death came closer but it still remained an enemy and he would fight it with all he was worth.

"No, Boromir. You fought bravely. You have kept your honor." Aragorn moved to the first arrow but Boromir grasped his hand.

"Leave it," he said, tears and despair lacing his voice. "It is over. The world of Men will fall. And all will come to darkness, and my city to ruin." His voice was deep with pain but he rallied his strength and raised his head, bearing down on the Ranger's shoulder with his fingers, bidding the Man to see what he had not the strength to say. Time was winning. Death was almost upon him. _Do you understand what I ask of you? I am a son of Gondor. I must remain a son of Gondor or I am nothing at all. _

Aragorn felt his throat tighten at the tears in the proud man's eyes. He was pleading with him, begging him with the words he had not said.

"I do not know what strength is in my blood but I swear to you I will not let the White City fall, nor our people fail."

Suddenly breathing was easier, and the burning pain in Boromir's chest receded. Death could come, it was now a friend. What he had desired most deeply all along had been offered to him by the very man he had wished to ask it from.

"Our people," Boromir echoed, drawing strength from the words. "Our people." _Sons of Gondor._ He released Aragorn's shoulder and put out a trembling and bloodied hand for his sword. Aragorn gave him the hilt and helped him hold it against his shoulder, over his heart. "I would have followed you, my brother. My captain. My king." He had not failed the White City. He had merely played his part and passed the task to another, one whose task it had always been.

Aragorn watched as the Gondorian's face relaxed into a passive mask. Boromir was no longer there, in the body that had cloaked such a noble spirit all his life. He knew that he would speak and Boromir could not hear, but the words needed to be said. Aragorn lifted his knuckles to his forehead and lips, then took Boromir's face gently in his hands, searching the man's vacant eyes. "Be at peace, son of Gondor," he whispered, kissing Boromir's forehead as a king might do to a friend who has done well.

He stood to his feet, every bone seeming to protest, every muscle working against the other. Aragorn did not feel it. It was the task of a warrior, a soldier, and he knew it. Boromir knew it. "They will look for his coming from the White Tower. But he will not return."

_Do not fear. I have now taken on this task._

_Be at peace…_

_Son of Gondor._


End file.
